


Calculated Risks

by fools_seldom_write



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c., Real Person Fiction
Genre: Angst, Crack Treated Seriously, Homophobic Language, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Love Confessions, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smoking, Smut, conversations about sex, i mean it's trump what do you expect, it's pretty brief tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-07 05:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21452473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fools_seldom_write/pseuds/fools_seldom_write
Summary: Bernie Sanders takes a calculated risk.
Relationships: Barack Obama/Michelle Obama (background), Joe Biden/Barack Obama
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	1. Bernie Sanders

**Author's Note:**

> I still don't know anything about America.

Bernie Sanders had taken a lot of calculated risks in his life. Hell, even running for president as an openly socialist and radically left candidate was a calculated risk. He had always stood up for what he believed in, even when it made himself vulnerable to hate crimes and state violence. And boy did he believe that Joe Biden was a pain in the ass.

Aside from being a total creep and low-key enabling fascists, Biden also – if that was even still possible at this point, after the disaster of an election in 2016 – had a tendency to make Democrats look worse than they were. Bernie wouldn’t just stand on the sidelines as another centrist let Trump win another election, and if that meant he had to take a very calculated risk, then it was so. Despite what Republicans thought, socialist were good at math, too.

Bernie Sanders would never admit working together with Donald Trump, of course. What a ridiculous idea; they despised each other. The enemy of my enemy is my friend didn’t apply to fascists. But Bill Clinton got impeached for lying about a blow-job, and Trump was already looking for dirt on Biden. What better way to eliminate a political candidate, at least a Democratic political candidate, than a good old-fashioned sex scandal. Republicans loved those. And if #CreepyUncleJoe hadn’t worked before, maybe he could at least get #GayUncleJoe to trend. His whole campaign was to appeal to centrists and liberals. What was so wrong with showing him how his target audience liked gay people?

Not that Joe Biden was gay, of course. A perfectly good, straight Christian centrist, except for the little fact that he liked to suck Barack Obama’s cock.

“Maybe we can help each other.” Bernie Sanders had said, and of course he had lied. He would never help Donald Trump. He was just a tool to eliminate Joe Biden, and the scapegoat for when this whole disaster was over.

Trump had been rightly suspicious. “Help each other?” He had asked. “You want to help me?”

“No.” Bernie had said, because pretending like he did would seem a bit far-fetched even for someone like Trump. “But I want you to help me, and since my end goal will ultimately further your agenda more than mine, why not involve you in it?”

Trump had squinted, obvious that he hadn’t understood. But he would never admit that anyway, so it was basically settled. Except for Trump’s tendency to unnecessarily complicate simple things. “And what is your end goal, exactly?”

“Look.” Bernie had said, sighing. “You don’t like Joe Biden? That’s great. I don’t like Joe Biden either. So, I will help you eliminate him.”

“And you need me for that, because you could never let the public know that you would do that to someone on the same team as you.” Trump had said, because sometimes, he wasn’t as dumb as everyone else thought. “So why should I pass up the opportunity to eliminate you both with that knowledge?”

Bernie had chuckled, because he had planned for that very threat. “You can try, of course. But I’m not like Biden, my target audience is a little different than his. The people voting for me would think it rather unlikely that I sold information regarding Joe Biden’s sex life to a fascist. Even if they could believe I had such information in the first place.”

Trump’s eyes had widened at the prospect of being handed material like that, and of course he had taken the bait. “Well, do you have such information?”

Bernie had smiled, because he had known at this moment that he had a deal. Republicans, they were never able to resist a good old Democratic sex scandal. “That depends.” He had said with a smile, and despite his disgust, he had offered Trump his hand.

Trump had taken it.

Surprisingly, Trump waited for the next press conference to break it to the public. Bernie had expected it in his next tweet.  _ The corrupt media continues to attack me but completely glosses over the fact that Joe Biden is gay. Fake news!  _ Or something like that, anyway.

Not that Joe Biden was gay, of course, but it was close to a miracle that Trump acknowledged that fact. He did complain about fake news, and about the media being too focused on his corruption. And casually, like it was nothing, he said: “Besides, a little birdie told me that Biden has more to hide than hundreds of sexual assault allegations. Apparently, he has also had an affair with Barack Obama.” And that was that.

Of course he got ridiculed, that had been part of the plan, and part of why Bernie had involved him instead of any other Republican. Donald Trump could afford being ridiculed, and accused of being a liar and a homophobe just trying to make his political opponents look bad. Which he was. But on the few occasions when Donald Trump told the truth, he made sure that everyone knew it was the truth. Even if it hadn’t been the truth, it was trending on twitter only minutes after anyway. And neither Barack Obama nor Joe Biden tweeted anything that day.

“So.” Trump said, sipping on his water. “Do you want to tell me how you knew about Biden’s little affair?”

Bernie smiled. He wouldn’t be baited that easily into giving a fascist valuable information. He wasn’t as easily manipulated. “A little birdie told me, you could say.” He said instead, using Trump’s words.

Trump leaned back and just looked at his opponent for a few seconds, reading his expression and deciding on what to do next. “Are we going to get something similar to the Starr report?” He asked.

Of course, Bernie hadn’t been the only one to draw parallels. It would have been too much to say that he was surprised that Trump brought it up, or that he knew what was in the Starr report, anyway. “Neither Biden nor Obama have lied about it in a court of law yet.” He said. “I’m pretty sure they’re meeting up with their lawyers as we speak.”

“Hasn’t helped Bill Clinton much.” Trump commented. For him, it seemed to be a done deal. For the sake of not showing weakness, Bernie pretended to agree with him on that.

“Have you ever read the Starr report?” He asked instead, trying to change the topic. To be quite honest, he had been wanting to get out of this situation for five minutes now, and he hadn’t even been in this situation for five minutes. Trying to have a normal conversation with Donald Trump was beyond exhausting.

Trump dismissed his question with a shrug. “You know.” He said. “A few days ago, if I had had to bet money on either Biden or you being a faggot, I’m pretty sure my bet would’ve been on you.”

Bernie looked at him, then closed his eyes and counted to ten. When he opened them again, Trump was grinning at him. A planned provocation, as it seemed. “You know.” Bernie said, trying out the same tone Trump had used. “This is why no one likes you.” He got up, ready to leave. He had a more than valid excuse now, after all. He would be an idiot if he didn’t use it.

“Because in some hypothetical scenario, I bet money on you sucking dick?” Trump asked.

Bernie gave him a sarcastic smile. Two could play this game. “Because you’re a fucking fascist.” And with that, he stormed out.

Looking back at it, sure, he shouldn’t have let this pathetic idiot make him angry. On the other hand, he just hoped he never had to have a private conversation with him again, not regarding this topic, at least. He had realized it gave Trump protection to say whatever he wanted, of course. He wasn’t dumb. They both knew that Bernie couldn’t use anything in these conversations publicly against Trump, or else he would have to admit to using a fascist to out a fellow Democrat as gay to the public. Not that Joe Biden was gay, of course.

Bernie Sanders hadn’t been there for this part, but Trump promised that it had happened this way, which, of course, meant absolutely nothing. A promise from Donald Trump wasn’t a promise at all, and even every breath he took should be taken with a grain of salt. That didn’t mean Bernie wasn’t curious, though, so he reluctantly agreed to have Trump tell him the surely completely exaggerated story.

Allegedly, Obama and Biden had both stood on his doorstep earlier today, practically begging to talk to him. They had both been visibly shaken, and clearly angry.

“What can I do for you two gentlemen?” Trump had asked.

Obama and Biden had entered without being invited. “How did you know about our affair?” Obama had asked, while Biden had stared at Trump like he wanted to kill him.

“I’m afraid that’s confidential.” Trump had answered. “But do I understand it correctly that you two admit to having had an affair?”

“I wouldn’t call it an affair.” Obama had said. “We’ve been in love for a while.”

At this point, Biden shed a tear, and it was also at this point that Bernie called the whole story bullshit. “Have you even met Obama and Biden today?” He asked, trying his best to hide his annoyance.

Trump scoffed. “I have.” He said. “And even if it may not have happened exactly like that, I know it felt to them like that.”

“Sure.” Bernie said. He didn’t really have time, or more accurate, patience for this shit.

“They asked me how I knew about their affair, and I told them it’s confidential. And they tried to pressure me and shit, and I asked them whether they would admit to their affair or follow in Clinton’s footsteps.”

Bernie raised his eyebrows. “And?” He asked. God, he hated that Trump made him do this.

Trump shrugged. “They left without answering. Pretty rude, if you ask me.”

Bernie really wanted to make a sarcastic comment about Trump using homophobic slurs and calling other people rude at the same time, but he stopped himself. If he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible, he couldn’t let himself be provoked. “So, why did you deem this important enough to actually call me? Did you just want to brag with your version of events?”

Trump chuckled at that. “I just wanted to let you know they’re investigating where I got my information from.”

Bernie nodded. “Well, thanks.” He said, not really bothering to pretend like he meant it. Then, for good measure, he added: “Your phone is unsafe. So, you know, don’t ever call me again. Don’t wanna make it too easy for them.”

Not that he wouldn’t have asked Trump to never call him again even if his phone was safe.

Bernie hung up. But he couldn’t help trying to imagine Obama and Biden desperate enough to try and get information from Donald Trump. Maybe Trump had been right in thinking it was a done deal already. Even with everyone involved keeping silent for now, the supposed fake news were still busy coming up with theories of what happened between Obama and Biden, and how Trump could possibly have known, speculating about what would happen next. A nice, old-fashioned Democratic sex scandal for the media to latch onto and suck dry for clickbait news headlines.


	2. Barack Obama

Barack Obama tried to keep out of politics these days, or, well, as much as he could being the former president of a nation currently ruled by a fascist. He knew that the people still missed him, but he had grown endlessly tired of the circus politics had become under Trump, and he cherished spending more time with Michelle and the kids. That was, of course, until Donald Trump decided to name-drop him at a press conference, claiming he had had an affair with Joe Biden.

Not that that claim was entirely false, of course. If he was honest with himself, it was entirely true. Well, that was that with keeping out of politics.

Obama knew he should be more worried about what to do next and how to help his friend out of this unfortunate sex scandal he had found himself in, but he couldn’t help but wonder how Trump could have possibly known. It couldn’t have been a wild guess, since the chances of being right would have been way too small. No one would have ever suspected them of having an affair. He must have known, somehow, and it was driving him crazy to think that someone close to him might have betrayed him like this.

Obama had always thought that Michelle had guessed something like this was happening, but the fact that she suddenly didn’t want to talk to him anymore, or even generally be in the same room as him, meant it must have come as a surprise to her. A part of him wanted to be angry at her for not even asking him about it, for just believing Trump uncritically, but he couldn’t really be angry at her for believing the truth, even if it came from an unreliable source.

Obama’s mind had jumped to Jill, but Joe had claimed that it couldn’t have been her, and that she had found out the way the rest of America had, through Trump’s press conference. “She’s not that good of an actress.” He had said, and Obama trusted him on that.

Joe had called him maybe half a minute after that part of the press conference aired. He had been panicked and angry, yelling into his phone and rambling about his campaign and cursing Trump way more than would have been necessary. Obama had done his best to calm him down, but he had been shocked and at a loss of what to do too.

After storming out of the room during the press conference, Michelle had locked herself in their bedroom, and when Barack had tried to talk to her through the locked door after his call with Joe, she had just continued to yell at him to go away until he finally realized she wouldn’t listen to him and he would have to wait for her to calm down.

So, as a logical next step, he called Hillary Clinton. She didn’t seem that surprised about his call, and greeted him like she had expected him.

Hillary Clinton, of course, was the world’s leading authority on forgiving a cheating husband. Even more so when the affair in question had happened during said husband’s presidency and with another member of the White House.

“You’ve seen the press conference, I take it.” Obama asked, somewhat defeated. It only now really sank in that the whole nation knew he had had sex with Joe Biden. He had always been so keen on protecting his family and his relationships from the public, making sure his private life stayed private, only for that orange asshole to ruin it in the matter of a sentence. Ruin not just that, but quite possibly his marriage too. He fully understood Joe’s anger now that he was finally seeing the big picture. It wasn’t fair.

“It wasn't particularly new information.” Hillary said.

Obama swallowed hard, eyes widening. “What?” Hillary Clinton had known about this? How? And why did she never say anything about it until now? It seemed almost impossible.

“I saw you two in the Oval Office once.” Hillary explained, as casually as if she was talking about the weather.

Now, that could or couldn't mean practically anything. It could mean that she had heard them talking about their relationship, or that she had seen them do something romantic, or, a possibility that made Barack feel sick, she could have caught them in the act. So much for a private life. Moments which he had previously thought were theirs alone suddenly got twisted into different versions, each of them featuring Hillary Clinton watching them from the shadows. Barack shook his head to try and get rid of these thoughts.

“Did you ever tell anyone?” He asked. If that was a yes, he might have already found the leak.

“No.” Hillary said. “Never.”

So he was at the beginning again. Barack sighed. That wasn't why he had called her either way. He could try to find the traitor after fixing his marriage. “Can I ask you a personal question?” He asked.

“Sure.” Hillary said, not seeming to suspect anything.

Barack breathed out. He never actually talked to either Bill or Hillary about their marriage, and he wasn’t sure what to expect. “Did you ever fully forgive Bill for cheating on you?”

For a few seconds, there was just silence at the other end of the line, and Barack was afraid he might have crossed a line. He was just about to apologize when Hillary answered him. “Sometimes I think I have.” She said. She sounded way more vulnerable than she should. “Sometimes I’m sure I haven’t. At this point, I don’t know anymore.”

Obama didn’t know what to say. The Lewinsky Scandal had been more than twenty years ago. If Hillary didn’t forgive Bill in that time, then it looked rather bad for him and Michelle.

“Why?” Hillary asked. “Are you having marital problems?”

Barack supposed that he owed her an honest answer to that, since she had told him something so private herself. “Michelle isn’t all that happy about what Trump said during his conference.” He said.

“Do you want to know the best advice I can give you?” Hillary asked.

“Sure.” Obama said.

“Don’t cheat.”

Obama sighed. That was not what he had wanted to hear, but he reckoned he deserved to hear it nevertheless.

“It’s foolproof.” Hillary said.

“Well, I can’t travel back in time, now can I?” Obama answered. It didn’t look like Hillary would give him helpful advice anymore. He couldn’t blame her, really.

“Then I can only wish you luck.” Hillary said, and hung up.

Obama got indeed lucky. Michelle came down for dinner.

“I’m sorry.” Barack said, and resisted the need to put a  _ but _ behind that.  _ I’m sorry,  _ but _ there are more important things right now. I’m sorry,  _ but _ it’s not that big of a deal. I’m sorry,  _ but _ you know I love you. _ He had to get this right the first try.

“For what?” Michelle asked, expression cold and unreadable. The only sign of emotion came from her eyes, which were still red from crying.

Of course she had to make it complicated and force him to say it. He swallowed and cleared his throat, avoiding to look at her. “I’m sorry for cheating on you.” He said.

They’ve been through this before, but that was in college. They were not in college anymore, and the only reason Michelle had forgiven him back then was because she had believed him to change. He had proved her wrong. He had already been on his second chance, and he ruined that one, too.

“Are you sorry for cheating on me, or sorry because I found out?” Michelle asked.

_ Both _ , Barack wanted to say, but he knew there was only one correct answer. “I am sorry for cheating on you.” He said. “I should have told you, either way.” It was the truth, even if it wasn’t the complete truth. It still had to count for something.

“Why didn’t you?” Michelle asked. She sounded hurt.

Barack bit back a snarky comment about how people usually didn’t tell their spouses when they were cheating on them. This was exhausting already, even if he deserved it. “I thought I could have the best of both worlds, at least for a little while. Pretend that what I was doing wasn’t hurting you, wasn’t wrong.” He sighed. He didn’t actually want to think about how he felt. Ignoring it had worked fine so far. So far. “I guess I thought as long as I didn’t tell you, it wasn’t real.”

Michelle didn’t say anything for a few minutes, and Barack already thought they were finished. But that would have been too easy, of course.

“I want to know what you did.” Michelle said. “Everything you did with him.”

Barack looked at her. There were tears in her eyes. “I don’t think that would help you feel better.” He said, as gentle as he could.

Michelle, in turn, yelled at him. “You don’t get to say what makes me feel better and what doesn’t, you fucking asshole!” Then, she started crying again.

Biden had been against talking to Trump. “No matter how it goes, he’ll just have more material to use against us, and he won’t tell us anything anyway.” He had said.

But Obama had insisted. “He’s also an idiot.” He had argued. “There’s a very real possibility he will slip, even if he won’t be eager to brag about his effective methods to begin with.”

So here they stood now, on Donald Trump’s doorstep. Trump seemed confused at first, but his expression became smug quickly. “What can I do for you two gentlemen?” He asked.

Obama and Biden had made a plan, of course. Even if it was unlikely, they would try to scare Trump, take him by surprise and corner him. So, as the first step, they didn't wait for him to invite them in; they entered without asking. Once they were in, it wouldn't be as easy for Trump to get them out again. He would have to face their questions.

“How did you know about our affair?” Obama asked.

Trump looked at them for a second, scanning them, trying to find out what he should expect from this conversation. “I’m afraid that’s confidential.” He said then. “But do I understand it correctly that you two admit to having had an affair?”

He was changing the topic, of course. More proof he had something to hide. Neither Obama nor Biden took the bait. If they wanted information, they needed to stay focused.

“Someone told you.” Obama said. “Who? Who could have possibly known?”

Trump opened his mouth to answer, then stopped himself, because sometimes, he wasn’t as dumb as everyone else thought. He looked at Biden, who hadn’t said anything so far, had just stood next to Obama and shot Trump looks that could kill. “Shouldn’t you two be with your lawyers? I’m sure they could help you more than I.”

Finally, Biden decided to speak. His voice was calm, but in a way that made it obvious how much he actually wanted to shout. “I haven’t done anything illegal. I don’t see why I would need to talk to my lawyers.”

“Of course, my bad.” Trump grinned. “What about your wife, then? Have you talked to her?”

Biden clenched his jaw. “Have you?” He asked, dangerously quiet.

Trump furrowed his brows. “Why would I talk to your wife?”

Obama and Biden exchanged looks. Sometimes, he was as dumb as everyone else thought.

Trump seemed to realize, too. “Oh. Yeah, no.” He thought for a moment, chose his next words carefully as to not reveal anything else. “My source wishes to remain anonymous. I respect that. So, you two are wasting your time.”

He was clearly getting more defensive. He had already slipped once, he was afraid it would happen again. He wanted to get rid of them to not risk anything. Which was exactly why they stayed.

“You don’t respect a lot of people.” Obama remarked. “So, it was someone close to you, someone you like. A fellow Republican?”

The corners of Trump’s mouth twitched upwards. He didn’t hide his amusement about Obama’s words very successfully. “I never said I respect my source.” He said, and almost sounded offended. “I do respect their wish for anonymity.”

“Not a Republican, then.” Obama said, and it wasn't a question. “Someone not involved in politics, perhaps?”

Trump cleared his throat and took a step towards them. He was aware that he had lost his high ground, and had to do damage control. “I have things to do.” He said and tried to stare them down. “I will ask you to leave now.”

Obama and Biden stood their ground. “We’d rather stay, actually.” Obama said. “It's a nice conversation we're having, don’t you think?”

Trump took another step forwards. “I’m not afraid to call security on a former president and vice president.” He said. Threatened.

Biden took a step towards him too. “You have made information about our sex life public.” He said, his voice too calm, too quiet. “Don’t you think you owe us at least how you got that information?”

Obama reached out to him, touched his arm. Tried to signal him to calm down in a way that didn’t make it obvious to Trump. Not showing weakness included not showing anger. Besides, Obama wasn’t completely sure that Joe wouldn’t punch Trump, with how he was since that fateful press conference, and he wasn’t particularly keen on having security called on them. Having that in the newspapers would just worsen the whole situation with Biden’s campaign.

“Last chance.” Trump said. “Leave. Now.”

Biden tensed up. Obama made a decision. Removing his friend from this situation was more important than potentially getting information about a leak. Even if he had to show weakness.

“Joe.” He said, and when Biden didn’t react, he grabbed his arm and physically pulled him back. Before leaving, he gave Trump a sarcastic smile. “Thank you for your cooperation,  _ Mister President _ .” He couldn’t stop himself from making air quotes with his free hand.

Trump didn’t comment it. Instead, he looked at the way Obama’s hand was wrapped around Biden’s upper arm, pulling him towards the door. “You two are making it real easy to imagine how it went down.” He commented, cruel smile on his lips.

Before the door could close behind them, Biden turned around for a last time. “Go fuck yourself.”


	3. Hillary Clinton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some brief sexual content in here, just so you know

Hillary Clinton knew the best place to have sex in the White House. Not because she had tried it out, or because she had given it much thought. She didn't even particularly want to know it, if she was being honest. She wished she would have never come into a situation where she got that information. Because, the best place to have sex in the White House, well, coincidentally it was the same place where her husband had fucked another woman.

Hillary had read the complete Starr report only two times, directly after it was initially published. Once to find out what exactly happened, since Bill had refused to tell her, and again after she had gotten drunk, to make sure she hadn’t dreamt the whole thing. There were parts of the Starr report, though, which she had read so often she knew them by heart. Those were the parts describing the best place to have sex in the White House.

Was it healthy? Probably not. But Hillary was well-aware that words lost their meaning with repetition. By the twentieth time she read the sentence “ _ the President touched Ms. Lewinsky’s bare breasts with his hands and mouth _ ”, she found it neither disgusting nor hurtful, but rather numbing. Sometimes, when she thought about it for too long, she wished it would hurt like twenty years ago. She had to justify her occasional existential dread with something, and the Lewinsky scandal seemed to be the perfect excuse. Except that, by now, in order to bring herself to feel anything about it, she had to actually try.

The wound was closed, and no matter how much she scratched and picked at it just to see her own blood, it would never be a fresh wound again. At one point, she would have to give up scratching and find something new to pin all the pent-up angst on. Maybe the loss of the 2016 election against Trump, as soon as she could bring herself to think about it without wanting to throw up. Just because she had written a whole book about it didn’t mean she was able to face it and accept it as fact.

Trump’s press conference was surprising only in one regard - that it was him in possession of that information. She had known about Obama and Biden’s  _ affair _ , as Trump had called it; she would have called it a relationship. She had known because she had seen them herself, in the best place to have sex in the White House.

Obama’s call was also surprising only in one regard, which was why he would want to talk to her of all people about this. She could think of at least a dozen people who should be higher on his list of priorities about who to talk to - Biden, Michelle, his lawyers. And yet he called her.

She wasn’t sure whether she should tell him that she had known already. She didn’t want him to think she had spied on him, because she hadn’t. Nothing about seeing him and Biden had been intentional, and why would she have wanted to see something like this in the first place? There was a reason she had never told them about catching them back then. It wouldn't have just been embarrassing for them, it would have been equally embarrassing for her. Just an embarrassing situation all around. Something that was best to be forgotten about.

And yet, she decided to tell him she had known. He was probably already having enough trouble as it was, so this small piece of extra information couldn’t hurt him. Besides, she didn't feel like pretending to be shocked. Honesty seemed to be the easiest road to take here. Or the least bumpy one.

She didn’t expect him to ask her about her marriage problems. He never had. They had worked closely together for four years, in the same spaces where her husband had fucked another woman ten years prior, and it had never come up. Of course it hadn’t. Hillary hadn’t wanted to talk about it, and Obama had been respectful. Or disinterested. Why would he care, after all?

In all honesty, Hillary had always been under the impression that Michelle had known. Obama was a nice guy, and very much in love with his wife. Hillary was sure their relationship wouldn’t have just survived, but even flourished further if Obama had just told Michelle about his feelings for his vice president. But, she didn’t know them that well, so maybe she was wrong, and it wasn’t her business either way.

“Obama or Biden?” Bill asked. He had watched her carefully from the couch while she was on the phone.

“Obama.” Hillary said. She sighed, and put her phone away. So, she had been the first person Obama had thought of to seek advice for his marriage after being caught cheating. That was not a great feeling. Would Biden call her too? She’d rather not have this conversation a second time. What was it with successful politicians and cheating on their wives?

“I bet he’s in a lot of trouble right now.” Bill said, voice and expression so neutral not even Hillary could guess what he thought about the whole thing. Hillary hated it when he used his political skills at home. Bill was aware of that, but it didn’t stop him at least half of the time. Maybe it was a habit. At times, though, Hillary thought he might actually be unable to distinguish his home from the Oval Office, and his wife from a political opponent.

“I always thought he told Michelle.” Hillary said, attempting to crack his detachment with vulnerable honesty. It didn't work.

“Mhm.” Bill said, and took out his phone.

Hillary continued to look at him for a few seconds, waiting for him to show even the slightest interest. When she realized that wouldn’t happen, she sighed loud enough for Bill to hear and left the room.

Hillary had thought about Biden calling her, but ironically, she hadn't thought about Michelle calling her. It seemed plausible enough, though, and it was exactly what happened not even an hour later.

“I don't have any right to call you about this.” Michelle said, before Hillary could even greet her. “It’s not fair to reduce you to your husband’s decision to cheat on you. I would absolutely understand if you would just hang up on me.”

There was silence, Michelle waiting for Hillary to make a decision. Her tone had made it clear she was expecting a rejection. But her tone also sounded hurt.

“Hello.” Hillary said. She tried to sort her thoughts and mostly failed. How did she miss the possibility of Michelle calling her? And what was she supposed to do now? A part of her wanted to hang up because it was easier, and she had already been given the perfect excuse. Reducing her to her husband’s decision to cheat on her… Was that what Barack had done with his phone call? She had hung up on him.

The silence continued. Michelle was waiting. A part of Hillary liked the excuse to hang up. Michelle had never really talked to her that much, and now she called her just because she needed advice? But phrasing it that way was hardly fair. Michelle had just gotten her heart broken. A little pity seemed appropriate.

“I’m not gonna hang up on you.” Hillary said. She had let Barack talk, at least for a bit. Maybe she shouldn’t have. If the hurt in Michelle’s voice was any indication.

“Thank you.” Michelle said. “You’ve seen the press conference, I take it?”

“Yes.” Hillary said. She couldn't help feeling a little guilty. She had seen Biden and Obama. She had known, for years. And yet, she never even thought about telling Michelle. Just assumed she was already aware, just assumed Barack had been honest. She should have at least considered the possibility of him cheating.

“I know Barack called you.” Michelle said. “I heard him talk to you. He asked you for advice. Did you actually give him any?”

Hillary scoffed. “I told him not to cheat.” She said, truthfully. She wouldn't tell Michelle she had wished him luck, though, even if it was in a condescending, almost ironic tone. “I guess I should’ve told him earlier.”

Michelle scoffed, too. “It’s not the responsibility of women to tell men not to cheat.” She said. “They’re supposed to know that themselves.”

Hillary sighed. Michelle was right, of course, but she was also over-analyzing this. Well, no wonder she was. Hillary remembered herself doing the same thing twenty years ago, and, if she was completely honest with herself, still recently sometimes. “Do you want my advice too?” She asked. She wasn’t sure she could give any. Just because she had dealt with the same didn’t mean she knew how she did it.

“No.” Michelle said, to Hillary’s surprise. “I’m pretty sure the last thing I need is someone telling me what to do. I don't know. I guess I just wanted to talk to someone who understands.”

“Mhm.” Hillary said.

The best place to have sex in the White House was the hallway leading to the private study. It had no windows, and if the door to the Oval Office was left open a bit, you could hear when someone was approaching and had enough time to pretend you weren’t having sex. Or at least that was the plan.

Hillary Clinton had been tired. It had been late, and she had been ready to quit for the day, but she had still needed to get some paperwork to the Oval Office. And so she had. At first, the sounds coming from the hallway hadn't even registered in her brain, but then they had, and she had stopped dead in her tracks.

It had sounded like heavy breathing and nothing more. Nothing too suspicious, but suspicious enough to check. She had opened the door to the hallway further, ready to ask what was going on, if someone needed help. She hadn't gotten to, had forgot about it the moment she had seen what was going on, words caught in her throat.

Barack Obama, leaning against the wall, pants open and dick out, breathing heavily. Joe Biden, on his knees, with Obama’s dick in his mouth, moving his head back and forth in a quick rhythm, looking as if he had done this a thousand times already. They had to have been at it for quite a while at this point, because Obama had come seconds later with a quiet “Fuck” on his lips. Biden had swallowed silently, gotten to his feet again with a small groan of pain. They had kissed.

Hillary Clinton had left without making a sound, embarrassed and shocked and just a little bit disgusted. Not even particularly at the situation itself, more at the fact that it had been Bill in Obama's place years ago, with his dick in Lewinsky’s mouth.


	4. Joe Biden

Joe Biden was fucked. Figuratively, which felt important to specify after recent events, although the whole reason he was figuratively fucked now was that he had been literally fucked earlier.

He wasn’t just fucked because right now, as he was running for president, was the probably worst time for this whole thing to come out. He wasn’t just fucked because one of his enemies had somehow been able to obtain information about his personal life, indicating a major leak somewhere close to him. He was also fucked because before this whole mess unraveled, he had almost been able to forget.

Of course he had known that what he and Barack had wouldn’t last forever. He had been perfectly aware that they would have eight years maximum when he first got into this whole mess. And yet eight years were a long time, more than enough for Joe to completely and utterly fall in love, but at the same time it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough for a Happy End. Was anything ever?

It had been stupid to fall in love. It had been stupid to get this close to Barack in the first place. It had been stupid to kiss him, and it had been stupid to fuck him, and it had been so, so stupid to be happy enough to forget, for one moment, that it would end. And now where had that gotten him? Well, he was the former Vice President, and currently running for president. But he was also still in love.

Joe knew that half the country still missed Obama, despite all the surveillance and deportations and innocent people killed by drone strikes. Why would he be an exception? Maybe it was time to admit that, when all was said and done, he was just like any regular American citizen. And he missed Obama.

And of course he had known that their relationship could never work outside of the White House, a fact that had been established since the very beginning. But, when their eight years had been over, he had actually been desperate and in love enough to be willing to try anyway. Barack hadn’t.

They had talked about it, on Election Night, as they had watched state after state turn red, and Barack had jumped up, not being able to just sit and watch this catastrophe unravel anymore. “I need a cigarette.” He had said and fled to retreat to the balcony. Michelle hadn’t stopped him, a testament to how bad this whole situation was.

Joe had followed him. He had kept a respectful distance, knowing that Barack wouldn’t want anyone to be too close to him now. Barack had lit his own cigarette, and then he had lit Joe’s cigarette, and then they had stood there in silence until Joe began to cough and wouldn’t stop, and for a brief moment, Barack had looked at him and actually smiled. It had just been a second in which he had been able to forget the reason they were smoking in the first place, just a second before his smile died on his face and he turned away again, but that second was enough for Joe to realize that he couldn’t just give up. He had to at least try to hold on to this.

Trump had just won the White House. What was there left to lose for them?

“I love you.” Joe had said, and put his hand on Barack’s back.

Barack had flinched just the tiniest bit at the so familiar touch, didn’t want himself to be comforted knowing what had happened. This wasn’t the right time for comfort.

“Joe.” He had said. Then he had opened his mouth as if to continue, but no words came out and he closed it again, took a long drag from his cigarette, kept staring at the glow of it as if it could give him any answers. They had watched the smoke disappear into the night for what felt like hours.

Joe had only spoken after Barack threw his cigarette away. “Please don’t make me leave.” He had said, and he had sounded so pitiful it made him feel sick. He would have been disgusted with himself in any other situation. But he had suppressed the common sense that was stirring inside of him, urging him to abort.

Barack had looked at him and his eyes were so endlessly sad that Joe wanted to cry. “We can’t.” He had said, and of course he had been right, but Joe didn’t want to hear it. Everything had gone to hell already. Trump winning the presidency, it made everything else seem okay.

Joe had wanted to convince him. Had even wanted to push him. He couldn't get the words out. Like someone had sown his mouth shut, all the things he wanted to say stayed trapped in his mind and they got too much too quickly. He had left. He had put out his cigarette and went back through the living room with the TV still on and locked himself in the guest bedroom. He hadn't even asked if he could stay the night, but it didn't matter now.

He had left Barack.

The weeks following the election they had pretended like nothing had happened. Pushed it all down, don't think about it.

On January 19th, they had been in the hallway leading to the private study again, Barack rocking against Joe until he had collapsed into his arms and broke down crying. Neither of them had said anything.

Joe had been able to feel Barack thinking, contemplating. He had wanted to say it back. He never did.

Joe was almost glad he didn’t. Now, he could pretend that Barack hadn't loved him back, and that was why they weren't still together. It was somehow less painful than watching Barack fall out of love with every minute they were apart.

He didn't want to pick up when Michelle called him. He felt panic rise in him just at seeing her name on the display. After everything that happened, this couldn't possibly be a good thing.

He knew he had hurt her. He had fucked her husband, and that had seemed fine back when she was so blissfully unaware, back when he could tell himself she wouldn't mind even if she knew. He had known that was bullshit back then, and he definitely knew it now, and there was a sharp spike of guilt.

Enough guilt to make him pick up. It was the least he could do after fucking her husband. “Hello.” He said in the calmest tone he could manage, and it felt ridiculous to greet her so normally. None of this was normal.

“Hello Joe.” She said, and her voice was so neutral that it was obvious how much anger and pain she was hiding behind it. “Are you free tomorrow evening?”

Now that certainly came as a surprise. Joe had expected a lot of things from this phone call. He would’ve expected her to yell at him, insult him, threaten him to stay away from her husband. He would've expected her to cry, accuse him of ruining her life.

After overcoming his initial surprise, he thought for a moment. “I am.” He said. “Why?” He didn't manage to keep his suspicion completely out of his voice.

Michelle cleared her throat. It sounded almost like she had to force herself to speak. “I would like to invite you to dinner.” She said.

Her voice was indication enough that she wouldn't let him refuse. He wanted nothing more than to politely decline. He reminded himself that he owed her. “Just me?” He asked. It might be less awkward if he could bring Jill. Not that he wanted her in the same room as the Obamas after what happened. But it could shift the focus away from him just a little.

“Just you.” Michelle confirmed.

The way she sounded, it made Joe think she was clenching her jaw. He swallowed hard. “Thank you.” He said, but he didn't manage to make his tone match his words. “What's the time?”

“Just be there around seven.” Michelle said and hung up without saying goodbye.

He was glad she did. He wouldn't have known how to end this conversation. It was already uncomfortable enough as it was.

Joe didn't sleep well that night. He couldn't remember the last time he had been this nervous. He was an old man, and only few situations were entirely new for him. This one certainly was.

He arrived too early and ended up waiting in front of the door for five minutes, checking the time every few seconds. Seven came and went with his finger hovering above the doorbell. He fought with himself, closed his eyes and finally managed to press it.

A few seconds passed, then Barack opened the door. When he saw Joe, he froze, looking puzzled. “Joe.” He said.

“Hi.” Joe said with a dry mouth. Because Barack didn't move, he gently pushed him further inside so he could enter.

Joe was almost finished untying his shoes when Barack finally managed to speak again. “What are you doing here?”

Joe had already been suspicious at Barack’s confusion and shock. This confirmed his suspicion. He sighed. “Michelle invited me for dinner.” He said without looking up. “I didn't realize she didn't tell you.”

Barack shifted his weight from one foot to the other, buried his hands in his pockets, so very clearly uncomfortable and at a loss of what to do. Joe wanted to comfort him. He patted him on the shoulder before making his way to the dining room.

Michelle was just finished serving dinner. When she noticed him, she looked at him without smiling. “Hello Joe.”

Joe bit his lip. The temperature of the room seemed lower than usual and he shivered. “Hello Michelle.” He said. He was surprised by how confident he sounded.

“Please, sit.” Michelle said and gestured to one of the chairs.

Joe sat.

Barack finally entered too, and chose the seat opposite to Joe. Michelle sat down next to him.

They made some small talk while they ate. Joe complimented the food, thanked her again for the invitation. It didn’t seem like the right situation for such niceties, but he didn’t know what else to do. So he followed social protocol as if this was a normal dinner, and tried to suppress the feeling of anxiety that got bigger and bigger with every passing minute.

Then they were finished, and Barack helped Michelle clear the plates, and Joe fought the urge to flee while he still could. His hands were fidgeting under the table and he caught himself tapping his knee. He scolded himself for how ridiculously panicked he was, but it barely helped.

When Michelle sat down again, she took a deep breath. “As you probably already suspected, there’s a reason I invited you.” She said.

So this was it. This was what Joe had been so nervous about. He imagined her leaping over the table, putting her hands around his neck and choking him to death. It wasn’t as hard to imagine as it should be. But it wasn’t this grotesque fantasy that made it harder for him to breathe.

“I asked Barack to tell me everything he did with you.” Michelle said, matter-of-factly. Joe wouldn’t want to see her cry or yell, but her lack of emotions was almost frightening. “But he never did.”

Joe tried to focus on counting the strings in the table cloth, but it didn’t work. He lost focus in the matter of seconds and settled on blankly staring at the table in front of him. He didn't know what to say.

“So I thought maybe you could help out.” Michelle continued. Joe didn’t look up, but he knew she was talking to him. His fingernails dug into the sensitive skin of his palms until his knuckles turned white.

He couldn't avoid this forever. This situation wouldn't go away if he just refused to look at it for long enough. At some point, he had to confront this. Confront Michelle. He thought about how relieved he would feel once he was out of here, and it was enough that he could force himself to look up.

He didn't consciously move his mouth. He only noticed he was speaking when he heard his own voice. “We had sex.”

Michelle kept waiting for something else, and when she realized it wouldn't come, she let out a deep sigh. “I figured that much already.” She said. “I want you to tell me  _ how _ you fucked my husband.”

_ With my dick _ , Joe thought at the back of his mind, and a part of him wanted to laugh. All the other parts of him were horrified of his wish to put humor into a situation such as this one.

To his surprise, Barack answered before him. “I… I’m sure you know how sex works.”

Michelle looked at him. “Was it just sex, though?” She asked.

Barack looked away and kept silent. Joe briefly wondered if she would find a purely romantic or purely sexual relationship between them worse. But that hardly mattered. It had been both.

“He never told me he loved me.” Joe said. He didn't mean for it to come out like an accusation, but it did. He hoped Michelle didn't hear the hurt in his voice.

And it was a lie. Barack had told him that he loved him. He had told him publicly, with all of America watching. But the publicity of it had left it open to interpretation. America must’ve thought they were such good friends. How painfully ironic.

“You knew I did.” Barack said quietly, without looking at him.

Yes, of course Joe had known. After eight years of being so close, Barack didn't need to tell him for him to know how he felt. But it didn't change anything. Joe had known a lot of things. It wasn't official until Barack said it aloud.

“And you were right not to say it.” Joe said, even though he didn't want to. “It would've just made everything even more complicated.”

Michelle interrupted them. “You can talk this out later.” She said. “I’m asking you again. How did you fuck my husband?”

Joe swallowed hard. He didn't want her to know about all that. It had been private. He didn't want her to know details regarding his sex life.

Before all of this went down, he had considered them friends. She was Barack’s wife, of course they had been friends. And he had never had a problem discussing private things with Barack while she was present. This was different. He wasn't talking to Barack. He was talking to her.

Even with Barack, they hadn’t talked about it much. They had established some rules, in the beginning, and Joe had sometimes made jokes about it. But it had been easier, not talking about it. Not thinking about it. Just enjoying it while it lasts.

“It was mostly hand-jobs and blow-jobs.” Joe said. His voice seemed too loud in the silence of the room. It sounded odd, hearing himself say those words. He couldn't remember if he had ever said them before.

Michelle took her time to speak again, trying to process what he said. “Mostly?” She asked.

Joe swallowed hard. He tried not to think, not to remember all the things Barack and he had done. “We didn’t…” He cleared his throat. “We did not have anal sex, if that's what you mean.”

“Then what did you have?” Michelle asked.

She wouldn't let him avoid this question. She wouldn't be satisfied with a half-assed answer. He had to tell her. “Sometimes, we would just…” It was infinitely harder now that he couldn't just use a general term. He actually had to describe what they had done. “We would just, sort of, grind against each other.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Joe was afraid of Michelle’s reaction, but the longer she took to answer, the more he wished she would just say anything at all. Then it could be over with.

“Well.” Michelle finally said. “I’m gonna lock myself in the bedroom to cry now.” She looked at Barack. “You can sleep in the guest bedroom.” She looked at Joe. “Please be gone by tomorrow morning.”

Joe could see the first tears forming in her eyes as she got up and left the room. He pretended not to have seen it.

They kept silent while she was still in earshot, and then they continued to keep silent after that.

“I did love you.” Barack finally said. “I didn't want to say it back then. It would’ve made everything too official. It came with terms and conditions that I didn't want to agree to. It would have required me to do something about it.”

Joe briefly smiled at the metaphor, but he couldn't focus on anything but the first sentence. “You did love me.” He repeated.

Barack sighed. “What good would it do if I told you I still love you?” He asked. “It would require me to do something about it.”

The silence dragged on, heavy between them.

“I do love you.” Barack said.

Joe let out a breath. “I do love you too.” He said.

“And what are we going to do about that now?”


End file.
